


Angel

by edy



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Depression, Fallen Angels, M/M, Physical Abuse, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-05
Updated: 2011-03-11
Packaged: 2017-11-09 06:36:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 10
Words: 9,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/452420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edy/pseuds/edy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Shut up. I'll throw up on your shoes." Gerard's shoes are dirty. It probably wouldn't even matter if I had thrown up on them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> inspiration: "i'm not okay (i promise)" by my chemical romance
> 
> -
> 
> as of may 2015, this fic has undergone major changes. this is _definitely not_ the fic it was back in 2010. the major themes have stayed the same, but the unnecessary subplots and characters have been removed to make this fic flow better and, overall, make it more enjoyable.

Salt hits me. Water laps at my face. It's black, and it frightens me. I'm trembling. I'm smirking. The water welcomes me. It wants me down there, in its arms. They're beckoning, so I fulfill their wishes.

The water is cold, and it wraps around every inch of my body, pulling me under. I fall, go deeper in the cool, waiting abyss of death.

I see black, and my breathing slows. My heart stops.

*

I inhale sharply and open my eyes. I don't know where I am. The floor is wet, but that's only to be expected: I had passed out in the shower. I'm still baked. Fuck.

I make my way from the shower, stumbling and smashing my knee into the doorway. Groaning, I limp into my room. With a quick glance to the shitty clock on my desk, I sigh. I have thirty minutes to get to school. Skipping sounds good right now, but I've already missed too much days. So, I grunt and pull on clothing. They don't really match. The makeup I apply only makes my eyes look worse, but I guess it's better to look like I've been crying rather than puffing on a joint. I brush my hair, chew on my lip ring. Time to go downstairs.

The kitchen smells like bacon and eggs. It makes my stomach make awful noises, but Mum smiles at me and acts like she hasn't noticed. "Hi, Frank. Do you want some breakfast before you head off to school?"

"No." I take the cigarettes from the counter and shove them into my back pocket.

She sighs. "You're looking awfully thin, Frank."

"Thank you." I leave, and the front slams shut behind me, but I don't mean for it to. Oh, well, yeah?

The wind is cold. I light a cigarette and suck on it, pressing my palm to my forehead to quell the growing headache. I'm stupid, so stupid, and I wish I'm not, but I am. I don't know anybody who gets high before school and expects to function normally throughout the day. On a typical day, I can't even get through my classes without stooping to a dangerous level. Getting under the influence won't help any. I can act like it does. I can pretend, but it doesn't.

I finish my cigarette and head to school.

There are two boys fighting in front of the double doors. I've never seen them before, so they must be new. This is a small town, a small school, so I would have seen these boys around before. Their faces are unknown. I approach them. My lips are chapped. I take the bottom one in between my teeth, slipping my tongue through the ring.

With every step I take closer to them, I start to see them more in detail. One is tall, and the other one is an average height. The tall boy has brown hair and wire-rimmed glasses. The other boy has a loud mouth and dirty clothing. He has black fingernails and shoulder-length black hair. The boy with the glasses notices me first, and he abruptly stops the fighting with a slap to the arm and nod in my direction. Black Fingernails stops, and now I have two boys staring at me. We stand in silence, staring, observing, and then I quietly ask, "Why are you guys fighting?"

Glasses speaks. "He broke a string on my bass." He points at Black Fingernails, who immediately laughs and acts offended.

"Shut up, Mikey. Nobody cares about your fucking bass."

Glasses, also known as Mikey, glares at Black Fingernails. "I care about it, dumbass."

"Well, you're nobody, Mikey!" Black Fingernails shoves Mikey.

I can't be bothered to get involved. I have a headache, and I'm dying for another cigarette. My lips are still chapped. "Perfect first impression," I tell them, and nudge past, into the building. I don't care about them. I can't be late to class. I have no time for this.

My locker has a dent in the bottom. The combination doesn't work. I try to alert the inhabitants of the school office, but they don't help me. They're incompetent. I kick my locker and give the handle a shake, and it opens. After grabbing my textbook for chemistry class, a bony finger pokes me in the shoulder, and a timid voice hits my eardrum. "Hey."

It's Mikey. He looks like he has done something wrong.

I shut my locker. "What the fuck do you want?" I ask, glancing at him.

He bites his lip. "I just wanted to apologize. My brother can be a dick sometimes."

"Brother?"

"Yeah. We're brothers."

I nod slowly, taking in what he said. "Anything else?" Mikey and his brother don't look a lot alike, but maybe they did when they were younger. I don't know their life stories.

Mikey continues talking. "I like your tattoos and piercings. They're cool."

"Thanks, I know."

"You're welcome."

I don't have time for this. I have a headache. "Bye." I leave him in the hallway. I don't think the bell has even rang yet.

*

I'm in my room, on my back, staring at the ceiling of my room with a half-burnt cigarette in between my lips. I don't remember if I have any homework.

Hell, I'm not going to do it anyway.

I puff on my cigarette and let my mind waver.

*

The burn scars on the back of my hands are hurting. I don't rub at them because I'm afraid of making noise. I know It is here, even if I can't see It. It's too dark in the unknown room I'm in.

My breath sharpens when I feel Its hand on my shoulder. Its thumb digs into my shoulder blade. I gnaw on my lip and dare not to make a sound to show my pain. I'm afraid. I'm afraid. I'm afraid.

Its other hand is on my hip. It faces me. It scares me.

Then, with a smile, It shows me things I never wanted to see.

It makes me feel things I never wanted to feel.

I feel dirty.

I always feel dirty.

*

The taste of ash on my lips is burning my throat. I cough and gag, and something comes out of my mouth. I'm about to throw up. I feel so sick, so disgusting, and I grab a blanket from my bed and throw it over the shit I coughed up. Out of sight, out of mind. I feel better.

I crawl over to my desk. I am a bad kid who gets drunk by themself on weeknights. I have a six pack in my desk. It's a one pack now, though.

My hands are shaking, so it takes me a bit to open the can, but when I get it open, I swallow, I shiver, and I take another drink. I only set it down when I'm finished. I feel better.

I unclothe and get into bed.

*

I hate walking to school. I always think somebody's gonna run me the fuck over with their fucking car.

I'd be lying if I said I wouldn't like the thought of that.

I enter the school.

With only one step in the building, I am called into the office. I am deciding if that's luck or pure coincidence as I start toward my new destination.

Upon sliding through the door, I freeze.

Black Fingernails is standing in front of me.

The lady behind the front desk looks at me with a bored expression. "Iero, can you show Mr. Gerard Way around the school? He's new and seems to have the exact schedule as you. Small world," she comments with a roll of her eyes.

I nod, not tearing my eyes away from him. I can't, I can't, I can't, and I have no idea why.

His name is Gerard Way.


	2. Chapter 2

Gerard is snapping at me. He's trying to get my attention. I don't know where my attention has gone. This is embarrassing. I shake my head. "What?" I say this like it's his fault I'm not attentive.

"Are you gonna show me around this seemingly nice place?" Gerard asks, looking at me with a raised eyebrow.

"Oh, um, yeah, um, follow me," I mutter. I walk out and momentarily forget where I'm supposed to go. He's standing next to me.

"What the fuck are we staring at?"

He has such a lovely mouth. I point up and down the hallway. "This is the front hallway. It's called that because it's the hallway in the front," I state matter-of-factly. I smile, too, which is a bit strange, but I don't question it. I like it. I shouldn't have—smiled, I mean. Next thing I know, there's laughing, and something wet hits my cheek. Saliva.

There are jocks across the hallway. They're in their football jerseys and laughing. They're gesturing toward Gerard and me, shouting homophobic slurs and making fun of my inability to make friends. "Are you going to fuck him until he ends up killing himself, too?" a blond asks. I'm sick to my stomach. I can't think of a response. Goodbye.

I think "goodbye" because I mean to say it to Gerard, but my mouth isn't working right. I tell him it mentally in hopes he'll understand why I'm sprinting down the hallway and into the boys' restroom. I don't want him to think I'm abandoning him on purpose. I'm sick to my stomach. Goodbye.

The first thing I do when I'm inside is vomit. That's expected, though. I vomit, and then I run water over my hands and splash my face. I don't feel sick anymore. I threw up, that's why.

The door opens. Round two. "What the fuck, man?"

Okay, no. Back to the end of round one. I'm in purgatory. "What?" Gerard is standing beside me. He doesn't look happy. His arms are over his chest. "What?" I repeat. 

"Why'd you run off like that? You can't let them get to you."

"I had spit on my cheek," I say, and then wave a hand toward my pale face. "That's why I ran. Not because I'm a faggot."

I watch Gerard's face soften in the mirror. "I wasn't even saying that."

"They were. They called me that." A pause. "You were probably thinking it."

"No, I wasn't."

"Shut up. I'll throw up on your shoes." Gerard's shoes are dirty. It probably wouldn't even matter if I had thrown up on them.

"What were those guys talking about?" Gerard asks, moving the conversation right along. He stuffs his hands into his pockets. "About you fucking someone who killed himself."

A little private and insensitive, but I would be curious if someone accused Gerard, a stranger, of the same thing. I don't know if I should tell him. It doesn't take me long to decide to lie. "I have no idea."

Gerard is satisfied. Or he knows when to let things go. Either way, he gives me a once over, then a small nod. "Right. Want to show me to first period? My first day of classes was yesterday, but I skipped."

"Off to a good start, then, yeah?" I giggle. He holds open the door for me. "It's okay. I hardly go as it is. You're lucky I came today." Jokes. Starting off strong. Gerard laughs, so I'm feeling a little better. I take him down the hall, then hang a right. The science classrooms are ahead. Biology first, then chemistry after that. I chew on my lip ring. "Want to hear a funny story?" We have a few minutes before class starts. 

"Lay it on me," Gerard says enthusiastically. He seems genuinely interested.

"I used to have biology class, but then I got switched to chemistry. I kept stabbing myself with the dissection instruments. I was a danger to myself or something. Stupid, right? Them moving me to chemistry is entirely counterproductive." Gerard isn't laughing, even though I said the story would be funny. "Funny, right?"

"What's your name?"

This takes me a moment to process. "My name? My name is, is Frank. It's Frank. I'm Frank." Frank, Frank, Frank.

Gerard stares at me. "Frank." I stare right back. He points a painted finger at my hands. "Why do you always wear gloves, Frank? I know I've only seen you twice, but why do you always wear gloves?"

My stomach is in knots. "I like gloves. I don't like my hands."

"They're disfigured, aren't they? It's okay, Frank, if you have problems. I have problems, too. It's okay if you're gay, too. I won't call you a faggot or a pussy because you aren't."

The bell rings. Class is about to start. My heart is racing in my chest. I think I'm going to vomit again. "I." Nice job.

Gerard gives me a smile. It's a smile that says Fear Me and You're Safe. He heads toward the door, holding it open for me once again. I don't remember walking into the room or taking a seat in the back. I don't remember slumping down and looking down at my desk with wide eyes and my heart still beating in my chest. Gerard is sitting next to me, though, and he's doing all the remembering for me. He remembers things I've never told him before. Should I be frightened? I feel violated.

I have a million and one questions in my head, but the only thing I ask is "Are you gay?"

And Gerard doesn't laugh. He doesn't act surprised. He just looks at me and replies with "No, but I am bisexual."


	3. Chapter 3

Gerard is sitting next to me. He's leaning back with his arms above his head, stretching, yawning. "This day has been so fucking boring."

I'm writing in my notebook. I don't raise my head. "I know."

When Gerard finishes stretching, he points at my notebook, then at the pencil in my hand. "What're you doing?"

What am I doing? I'm writing, dazed. I don't remember what I've written. I flip to a blank page and quickly think of something. "English homework. We had to write a poem."

Gerard looks momentarily confused. I can't stare at him for too long or else I'll feel exceeding guilty. "I must have already turned it in."

"Yeah, you did. I was there."

Gerard sighs, becomes more relaxed. I hadn't meant to stress him out. I feel guilty. I scribble.

We're in the gymnasium. We're supposed to be doing something _active_ , but we're allowed to sit if we're doing homework. I'm doing homework or, at least, I'm doing something that can easily pass as homework. Gerard is drawing on a piece of scrap paper. His thumb nail isn't painted anymore. He's chewing on it. "I'm tired," I say, because it's too quiet. I hear my classmates laugh and skid across the basketball court, but I still think it's too quiet.

"Take a nap," Gerard suggests, straight-faced, completely serious. "I'm here. I'll wake you up when class ends."

Gerard deserves the best in the world. "Promise?" I raise my hand, little finger outstretched like a child who still believes in pinky promises.

Gerard wastes no time at all with looping his finger around mine, squeezing for a moment. "Promise." Gerard takes pinky promises very seriously. I don't feel like an idiot now.

I shove my pencil in the spiral of my notebook. It's mechanical, so it works. If it wasn't mechanical, I would have still stuck it in. Whatever. I use my arms as a pillow. My face is stuffed into them. I can hardly breathe, but it feels good right now. I'm sleeping. I'm sleeping.

*

"Frank… Frank…"

The voice echoes. It's like a ghost. I'm going to vomit. I'm shaking. I'm smirking. My foot is over the edge, and I'm about to lose my balance. Take me, take me.

"Frank… Frank…"

My throat is dry. I can't swallow. It hurts. It hurts too much.

"Frank… Frank…"

I hear my name. I always hear my name. I can't do this. I ignore them. I ignore everything. I bend my knees and jump.

"Frank… Frank…"

Cold air is my blanket.

"Frank… Frank…"

The voices are coming closer.

"Frank… Frank…"

I try to speed up my free-fall, but to no avail.

"Frank… Frank…"

Something grabs onto my arms and jerks me. My breath catches in my throat, and I explode into a coughing fit. I'm crying. My eyes are watering, but it doesn't matter. All I see is white light. I'm in the dark, but I see white. This is it. This is it.

"Frank… Frank…"

*

Piss off, light.

Hands are on me. They're shaking me. Rattle, rattle, shake, shake. I have a headache. I'm sick. When I open my eyes, I see hazel. I don't know what I'm staring at, so I shut my eyes again. "Uh."

An exhale. Relief. "There you are. I thought I might have needed to get the nurse."

Gerard. Gerard's voice. I open my eyes again. Hazel. Gerard's eyes. "You stayed." I say this rushed, excitedly. I'm surprised. "You stayed."

"Of course I stayed," Gerard says, then stares at me with a pointed look. "I couldn't exactly leave you here, could I? That'd raise some questions. Now, if someone were with you while you were napping? No, you're fine. You were talking in your sleep. I didn't know what you were saying. I was scared. I shook you. You're awake now." Gerard is rambling. He has his cell phone out in front of him. He presses a button. "It's a little after three. Wanna just head home?"

Gerard deserves a halo. I forget how to speak. Gerard glances, brow furrowing. "Are you okay?"

I gather enough sense to respond this time. "Yes, I'm okay. I want to head home, yeah." We're quiet. I notice Gerard is still drawing. He has several papers spread around him. Most are filled with bats. "I like your drawings."

"Thanks. You can keep them, if you want." Without waiting for my reply, Gerard tucks them into my notebook. He stands, hands in his jacket pockets. "I can walk you home?"

I stand with him, grabbing my backpack from the floor. "Sure, yeah. Walk me home." I pack up, sling the bag over my shoulder.

Somehow, during the whole walk back to my house, Gerard's little finger finds mine.

*

There's a note on the refrigerator. It's held by a small magnet. It's from Mum. _I'll be home late! Spend some time with a friend, Frankie xx_

I'm okay.

I grab breakfast before I head out. It's soda, so it isn't a very good breakfast. My stomach hurts. Gulping down soda probably isn't the best remedy. I take another drink and check to see if the front door is locked three time before jumping from the front porch.

Gerard is there. Well, he isn't right there, right there. He's on the sidewalk, mid-step, like he was already on his way into my front yard. He freezes when we make eye contact. "Hey."

I don't want to make this awkward, so I smile at him and offer him a drink of soda. "Thanks for thinking about me, y'know. Wanting to walk to school together."

Gerard takes the soda. We start walking. He sips. I sip when he gives it back. We've shared saliva. I'm shorter than Gerard. When we walk, his feet make louder thuds, but I have a wider stride. We share the soft drink. I try to act like I don't notice Gerard attempting to hold my hand again. I don't care if we hold pinkies or whatever, but holding hands is something else. It's weird. I'm wearing gloves, but I always do. Gerard pointed that out.

"I can stop," Gerard says. "I know you have bad hands, and I don't want to make you uncomfortable."

"I'm not uncomfortable." My fingers curl around the pop can. "How do you know about my hands?"

He doesn't answer that question. He only mumbles, "I'm sorry," and then I'm the one taking Gerard's hand because I'm not uncomfortable. Gerard knows about my hands, and I don't know how.


	4. Chapter 4

I don't know what happened. I'm being pushed, prodded, forced to stand. "Come on, Frank," I hear, but I'm heavy. I want to lie down.

"No, no," I protest, but I don't hear that. It's quiet now, but I'm standing. I don't see what's going on. I'm dizzy, and it's dark. I hear voices, but they're not connecting.

"Frank, Frank, Frank. He's not okay. Let him lie down. Please."

I'm not okay.

*

I wake up in a bed that is not my own. It's hard, and it smells of antiseptic. It's too bright in here, so I shield my eyes. My hands are bandaged up. They smell worse than the bed. Get me out of here.

The door opens. It's Gerard. "What's your favorite color?"

"Blue. Where am I?"

Gerard walks over, sits down in the chair next to the bed. "School nurse. You had an accident in chemistry class." His eyes dart around the room. "Do you remember?"

"No." My voice is hoarse. I set down my hands, letting them lay along my sides. "I don't remember."

"I expected as much. You passed out pretty quickly." Gerard rubs his hands together. It looks like he's rubbing it in. I can't use my hands. I feel like drowning. Gerard continues, "School's over. The nurse said if you weren't able to walk by then, then she'd call an ambulance, admit you. Can you walk?"

I try. I do. I still feel heavy. I'm disorientated. "I'm okay." I am okay. I swallow some vomit.

"Good." Gerard stands, as well. He's in front of me now. "Some guys wanted to talk to you, too. I don't know who they are."

I don't have the strength to be curious. Gerard leads me out of the room. The nurse checks on me first—vital signs, eye exams, the whole nine yards. She deems me able. We leave. The "some guys" Gerard had referenced before are standing in the hallway, ready to leave for the day. I recognize them. "Hey."

Bob Bryar and Ray Toro look at me as if I were a ghost. Their eyes are wide, and Bob is taking on the appearance of a man ready to punch someone in the face. "Frank, dude, are you okay?" Bob asks, and he comes closer to hug me. I want to burst into a million pieces.

"I'm fine."

"You don't look fine," Ray points out. He rubs my arm when Bob lets me go. "Ready to fall over."

"Yeah, I'm about to." Gerard isn't happy to hear that. His face screws up. I swallow vomit again. "I'm about to go home. Gerard is walking me. Watching. I'll be okay."

They don't look convinced, but they allow Gerard aid me in leaving. They always look suspicious around me, and I try to act like I don't know why. "What's their deal?" I ask, acting like I don't know why again.

"Worried about you, Frank. I'm worried about you, too. You don't look okay. What are you going to tell your parents?" Gerard is holding onto my elbow. I feel a little woozy, but I'm going to be okay.

"My mom isn't going to be home tonight."

"What about your dad?" Gerard stares at me, his fingers careful and strong.

I feel sick. I break away from Gerard in order to vomit. I drop to my knees and do my best to not curl into the grass. Gerard sits next to me, rubbing my back. I cough. "I don't have a dad."

Gerard is quiet. He watches me compose myself, helps me stand, dusts me off. "Sorry about that. Want to stay with me tonight?" He phrases this like a question, but I don't think I have a choice. I'll feel safer with Gerard, so I nod and mumble my agreement. My hands feel stiff. I curl my fingers. "We'll get those off," Gerard says. We start walking again. "See the damage you've done."

We're in a nice neighborhood. The house we're stopping by is nice. The birds I hear are nice. Everything is nice. "It was an accident," I whisper. "You said it was an accident."

Gerard's hand is back on my elbow. His thumb curves around it, stroking. "I lied."


	5. Chapter 5

I still feel sick. My arm is wrapped around my stomach, almost like I'm holding my insides together. They're going to spill out again, and I don't like the idea of that. I need to get on the floor, need to lie down and curl into a ball and sleep for an eternity and a half. Gerard would let me. I think he would. He's pushing me inside the house. My feet don't work that well anymore, but I'm still walking. I don't know how, but I am.

The exterior of the house is lying. The interior isn't nice, and someone needs to hire a maid. We're in a living room, and the television is turned onto a channel full of static and loud noises. It makes my head hurt. Gerard is holding onto my arm, helping me walk around the leftover take-away containers on the floor, the dirty piles of laundry. We're in a pigsty. There're two people on the couch, grabbing at each other, teeth baring and fingernails scratching. I don't know who they are, but Gerard does. He's pushing me inside a room and telling me to stay. "I need to take care of something," he says, as if the couple on the sofa is a few rodents. He shuts the door in my face.

I hear "Mikey" and "what are you doing" and "we have company— _ill_ company" and "go fuck her upstairs".

In return, I hear "fuck off, Gerard" and "are you going to fuck _him_ " and "oh, God, don't tell me you're going to fuck him".

I leave. I'm walking again. The room I'm in leads downstairs. I have to run my fingers along the wall in order to find my way down. This must be Gerard's room. It smells vaguely like cigarette smoke and coffee, and I have to step over another dirty pile of laundry just to get to the bed. The bed itself is comfortable, though, so I fall back on it and hope Gerard doesn't mind. He shouldn't mind. I'm company—ill company, and ill company needs to sleep. Ill company needs to sleep for an eternity and a half. Gerard would let me. Gerard will let me.

*

"Get over here, you little fucker."

No… No, please, no.

"How long is it gonna take you to realize that if you hide, you're gonna get even more punished?"

I don't like Its punishments. They hurt.

"Come out, come out, Frank…"

Go away. I'll call the cops.

"If you come out, I'll give you a gift. It's a really good one, too."

It's not gonna be good.

Its hand touches my thigh and pulls. "There you are." It flips me over onto my back and smirks at me. "I'll give you the gift anyway." Its features soften, and I soon recognize who this really is. I don't feel so scared anymore. And I welcome the gift. The sick part is that I really like it, and I want more gifts.

Punishments hurt. Gifts don't.

*

Gerard is shaking me awake. I am coughing and sputtering, and I've forgotten how to breathe. "Frank," Gerard is repeating over and over, and my eyes are wide, and I stare at him, at those hazel eyes, and I hold my breath and count to eight. I release, slow, slow. I'm calm. I'm okay. "Frank," Gerard says, pressing a palm to my forehead. He's brushing my hair away from my clammy skin. I'm safe with Gerard. "Are you okay?"

"Bad dream." I shut my eyes. "I'm okay."

Gerard doesn't seem that convinced, but he's sliding away, standing from the bed. It creaks when he gets up. It creaks when I sit up. It creaks when I breathe. "Who was that on the couch?" I ask, although I'm not entirely sure I should. "Your brother, yeah? Who was he with?"

"His girlfriend." Gerard has an en-suite bathroom. He disappears into it. "Go back to sleep," he says.

My hands are still heavy. They're wrapped in the bandages, and I want Gerard to remove them. "Remove these," I tell him, as he emerges from the bathroom with a first-aid kit. Good.

"Go back to sleep," Gerard repeats, taking a seat on the bed. It creaks. "I'll fix your hands."

I don't want to look at them, so I lean back and rest my head on a pillow. I don't know if I sleep. I sleep.

*

My hands are carefully wrapped in gauze. Gerard is amazing. We're lying on his bed, turned toward the television set he has on a crate, but not really paying attention. We're talking. He's holding onto a Voo-Doo doll. It's ratty, has _X_ s for eyes, stitches for a mouth, and nails sticking from its head. The toy is also holding a little wooden croquet mallet. It's weighing down the doll's arm. When Gerard holds it upright, the shoulder with the extra weight sags, but he looks at the toy fondly, so I'm not going to say anything. "Its name is TayTay," Gerard says, glancing between the doll and me. "Y'know how children say they're okay? I'm _otay_ or some shit."

"I'm otay," I mumble. Gerard lets me hold the doll. I don't ask about the nails in its head.

I'm still holding the doll, TayTay, when we actually turn our attention back to the TV. I don't know what we're watching. I don't get to find out what we're watching because the bed is creaking some more. The bed is creaking, and Gerard is leaning in. He's leaning in, and my reaction time is as slow as a sloth. He's kissing me, his lips against the corner of my mouth. Gerard is kissing me, and the bed is creaking. I'm kissing Gerard back. I taste like vomit, and Gerard tastes like nothing. I grab his face with my awful hands, and TayTay lands somewhere on the floor. It's okay, though, because Gerard is crawling on top of me, and my arms are wrapping around his torso. I can't touch his skin because my hands are disgusting, but he touches my skin with everything he has. He kisses my face, my neck. He licks along my cheekbone, my jawline. I think I could be in love. I think I could be in love.

It's dark when we finish. He has TayTay this time, fingers curling around its little arm, making it hit itself in the head with that little mallet. "My mother made this for me," he says. "Did I ever tell you?"

He hasn't. I don't see when he could've had the time to tell me.

"It didn't use to be this grotesque," he goes on. "Shit happens, though."

I nod. "Like my hands," I add in agreement.

He turns his head and stares at me. We're silent for a moment. "Yes." Gerard smiles. "Like your hands."


	6. Chapter 6

Gerard and Mikey's father is in the house. I know this because I hear yelling, and Gerard has told me to sit in the shower. "You'll be safe in here," he had told me, before pulling the curtain and shutting off the lights. He had pushed TayTay into my chest, too, as if it would help me feel better. I'm shaking, though, and I know I would be crying if I didn't have the toy with me. This must have been Gerard's security blanket when he was younger. That's why Gerard still has it. He must hold it close to his chest at night and sob into it. Gerard is broken. I'm broken.

Gerard is getting beat upstairs. I hear yelling again, protesting, and then I hear a loud smack, and everything is quiet, but I know everything is okay because I hear footsteps, skidding, and then I hear more yelling, more hitting. Gerard and Mikey are fighting back, cursing, spitting, and I'm in the bathtub and wishing I should have left the house when I woke up. But, when I woke up, I was already being ushered into the bathroom, locked in here, being told I would be safe in here. I don't feel safe, not without Gerard.

Homophobic slurs are coming from upstairs. Gerard's voice is only louder, in order to drown everything out. "Stop, stop, stop," he is saying, but here comes another thud, and now Gerard doesn't need TayTay to feel safe. I'm sick. I have to stay hidden, though, or else I'm going to give away my hiding spot. I don't want that to happen. I want Gerard, and even Mikey, to be okay when I open my eyes. I close my eyes and bow my head, sticking it between my knees, and I hope everything will be okay when I open my eyes. Everything has to be okay when I open my eyes.

*

Gerard is sitting on the toilet. I have the first-aid kit open this time. I'm dabbing at scratches with cotton balls drenched in antibiotic cream. It's a tedious task because of my hands. Gerard is talking, despite my constant telling him to shut up. "He started beating us because Mama left. He blamed us for her leaving, but we didn't do anything… She left us when I was about twelve. Daddy decided to beat us whenever we acted up because he thought that would teach us what we did wrong and to never do it again."

I'm sick to my stomach again. I haven't eaten anything, so I should be okay.

"TayTay is destroyed, because of him. He did this. He did everything."

I push a strand of hair behind his ear. My heart is in my throat. "Did he, did he just beat you?"

Gerard is confused. He looks up at me, brow furrowed. "Why do you ask?"

The world has stopped spinning. I sway on the spot. "Why?" Gerard asks again, reaching forward to grab hold of my wrist.

I move from his touch. It's automatic, and I regret it. I swallow my tongue, yet still I talk. "My father used to rape me."

*

"What happened after that?" Bob is lighting up a cigarette. It doesn't work the first few times. His lighter is dead. I pass him one of mine.

"I got scared and ran out of the house. I think I left one of my shoes there."

Bob shakes his head, cigarette between his lips now. "Fucking ridiculous. You can't just forget one of your shoes."

We're sitting on my front porch. It's late, evening time. I'm home from Gerard's, and I haven't stopped feeling sick. I have both shoes on my feet, but I know I left something behind. Bob continues to talk. "That's a lot for him to take in, Frank. Maybe he needs, like, a weekend to sleep on it."

The laugh that leaves me is gross. I cough right after. "You don't possibly just sleep on something like that, Bob. You didn't. If he had something to say, he would have said it right then and there."

"Well, he couldn't exactly do that when you were scurrying from the room, you pipsqueak." Bob punches me in the arm. It's light. He doesn't hurt me. "You'll have to talk to him, you do know that, right?"

Bob hands me the cigarette. I take a drag, exhale. "Monday, yeah."

*

I have nightmares about Gerard shoving me off high places, yelling at me, shouting slurs and calling me a freak. His drawings of bats turn into live bats, and they fly over his head and attack my face. Their tiny claws would dig into my face, ripping apart my flesh, but I would welcome it. I am a freak. I can practically hear Gerard's voice in my ears, condescending, violent almost. "Gross, gross, gross. You had sex with your father. Gross, gross. You're so _disgusting_."

My stomach can't hold any food. I drink lots of water.

*

On Monday, I try to pretend I don't know who Gerard is. It works for half the day, but when we get to gym class, Gerard pulls me aside. He isn't meeting my eye. "Let's talk."

Everybody is skidding on the basketball court again, but we're atop the walkway. It's quiet. Two girls pass us, talking about an upcoming test. I rub my hands together, the fabric of my gloves warm on my palms. I don't say anything first. I don't plan to. My stomach is in knots. I can feel Gerard's eyes on me. "Frank…"

Something is bubbling up inside me. I shake. "What, Gerard? What do you want to know? If it was any good? If I felt bad doing any of it? What, huh? Are you going to ask about the things he made me do to him? Are you going to ask if I liked it?" I'm angry, fuming, and I don't know why. I need to calm down. Gerard is staring at me, just staring, but it speaks volumes. I'm still shaking. "If you have anything to say to me, Gerard, fucking say it now. I don't know what you're thinking. I can't read your mind. Just spit it out. I'm ready."

"Why are you being so hostile?" Gerard is treading lightly, but I'm in a rage. I look at him, and he looks at me as if I have steam coming from my ears. "I don't know why you're reacting this way. I just want you to open up to me, and you're acting like this, and I—"

"Fuck off," I hiss. I'm losing control. I'm huffing, puffing, and I'm about to blow up.

"Frank, I—"

"No," I interrupt again, standing from my seat. I begin to pace. I walk a few paces, but then I step back, reel it back in. I'm seeing double. I scratch at my face. A dark hole is opening up. Toxins are leaking out, floating up like gasoline. I am hostile. I am the violent one. "Fuck off," I repeat, and I glare at Gerard, and then I take off. I run, run, run, and I don't have control over my legs, I'm losing control, I'm running, and then I'm jumping, and I'm flying. I'm flying. I'm bending my knees and taking flight.


	7. Chapter 7

I'm in a hospital bed. I hear the _beep-beep_ _beep-beep_ of the heart monitor beside me. The sound makes me sick, but my stomach is empty. It's been empty. Everything is empty.

"What're ya crying for?" I don't know who's talking, but they have my voice. Someone has my voice. I grab my throat, but I can't grab my throat. My arms are restrained to the bed.

"Frankie, you jumped out of a window. Of course I would be crying." I don't know who's talking, but they have my mother's voice. Someone has Mum's voice. I grab their throat, but I can't grab their throat. My arms are restrained to the bed. "You jumped out of a window," Mum's voice continues, "and you broke your foot. I guess I should be grateful it wasn't your neck, right?"

My neck, right. A broken neck would have been terrible. My foot hurts, but it doesn't hurt. I can't feel it. I would move it, but my legs are restrained, as well. I'm a prisoner. I need out of here.

"I can't feel my legs," the voice that sounds like my own slurs. "I can't feel anything. I'm scared, Mum. Mum." I move my hands, and my fingers curl. They curl around scratchy blankets, and I pull. I try to, at least. I'm weak. "I'm dying. I'm sick, and I'm dying. He's going to come after me again, Mum, isn't he? It's coming back."

Mum is starting to cry again.

*

 _Paralyzed_ , they say. _Broken spinal cord_ , they mutter. _He'll never recover_ , they hiss.

I'm frozen in a block of ice. Everything is moving around me, and then… a light? Okay, a light. A light. The light is painful, so painful. I try to get away from it. I scream, I yell, I cry. "No, no, no." I'm melting. The light is too strong. I hear a loud crack, and I bend, I twist, and I'm being frozen again. I'm being stabbed over and over in my legs. I can feel my legs. I can feel my legs. I vomit on myself.

*

Bob is visiting. He's quiet as he sits beside me on the bed, thumbing through his phone. He smells like cigarettes. "So, what happened?" He isn't looking at me, but I know he means well.

"I don't know. I jumped out a window. I was in the hospital. Broken foot, broken spinal cord." I'm picking at my toenails. "I don't know what happened." My little toe begins to bleed. "I think it was Gerard. I don't know why, but I think it was Gerard."

Bob is looking at me now, but I know he means well. "You're gonna have to tell him." He goes back to his phone. I go back to picking at my toenails.

*

"He used to get me when I was sleeping. I had nightmares a lot when I was a kid. He took advantage of that while he was taking advantage of me. He said he was going to give me a present, but… it wasn't a present." I'm shaking. I'm trying to smoke a cigarette, but I'm shaking so much. "It was disgusting. It was gross. I was so weak. Mum found us, one day—finally, yeah? It wasn't long before he was outta there. It was hard, though. My nightmares continued. I was a mess. I had a friend, and he used to help me. When we got older, maybe around sixteen, we started dating. We had sex a lot. He ended up killing himself after rumors got started. I was a mess again. That's why those guys asked me if I was going to fuck you until you killed yourself, too, on your first day. I told you I didn't know why they said that, but I was lying. It was because of my friend." I'm still shaking. I take a drag from my cigarette, but it doesn't help anything.

Gerard helps me. He holds my hand, holds it steady. I inhale, and I feel fine. When I lower my hand, Gerard's lips press to mine. I still have smoke in my system, and when I exhale, I let it into Gerard's mouth. He's a smoker, so he allows it in. I feel it escape through his nostrils, and he's still kissing me. He's raising a hand to brush hair behind my ear, pulling me in close, testing the way my teeth feel against his tongue.

It's cold outside. He's walking me home from school. We're standing on the sidewalk, kissing each other. The cigarette is about to burn out. I break from Gerard in order to save it. I puff on it. "My birthday's next week," I tell him. "Halloween. Do you want to go out and do anything?" I'm nervous. Gerard and I haven't made _us_ official yet.

He kisses me again. It's wet. He takes my cigarette and has the last drag. "It's a date."


	8. Chapter 8

Gerard is singing. He's rather good at that. It's a song from _The Nightmare Before Christmas_. He knows how much I enjoy that movie.

It's Halloween, my birthday. We're about to go out. I don't know where we're going, but I suspect it's to a shitty house party one of our classmates are, no doubt, throwing. I'm brushing my hair, getting out all the tangles while Gerard is bringing up the mood with his singing. I don't know why, but I'm feeling a little under the weather—mentally, I mean. Like I said, I don't know why.

I'm finished brushing my hair. Gerard has finished singing. He tells me to hurry up, that he wants to get on with it, wants to go, go, go. I smile because he looks cute, bouncing from foot to foot, grinning from ear to ear with a huge grin on his face. We're not in costume, but I don't expect many others to be in costume. I love Halloween, but it is my birthday. I need to look somewhat presentable, right? No, wrong. Dead wrong. Gerard gives me a pair of vampire fangs I can attach to my canines. He has a pair, too. It isn't much, but it's something. Today is Halloween. Everybody scream.

*

I lost Gerard.

There're strobe lights flashing, there's loud music playing, and there's alcohol mixed in with the cherry Kool-Aid. I have a headache, and I'm trying to slide past sweaty bodies and swaying hips, but I bump into more people than I would have liked. It's okay, though, it's okay. I keep getting told "Happy Birthday!", and it makes me feel a little better. I'm still not in touch with Gerard. He said he was going to go outside, to smoke a cigarette, and I think I remember telling him "a-okay, dude!", but I don't quite remember. I should have went outside with him. I should have. There is never a bad time to smoke a cigarette.

I feel like vomiting. I make it from the party. I don't know how, but I do. It's cold outside, but it's autumn, so it's supposed to be cold. There are packs of people outside, too, gathered in small circles and conversing, loud, loud, loud. They're smoking cigarettes, too, and I can't tell if the air around their faces are fog or cigarette smoke. I move on, walk, wave at someone here, someone there. I need to find Gerard. I could ask. I do ask. "Have you seen Gerard?"

"Gerard?" they reply, and they laugh, shoulders shaking and eyes bright. "Who's Gerard?"

Gerard blends into the background. Nobody remembers him, and when I leave, nobody will remember me either.

I'm at the park. It's a rather small park. I don't remember walking here, but I think that's all right. It is for now, at least. When it's the morning, I'll allow myself to ponder my memory blackouts.

There isn't anybody here at the park. It's vacant, the swings moving from the wind. The merry-go-round is moving, too, but upon closer inspection, I see someone is on that. I walk, crunching leaves, stomach sick. Gerard is there. His feet are on the ground, lightly shoving the merry-go-round back and forth. It isn't much, but I do think the play thing is rather heavy. I sit down, next to Gerard. My feet are next to his, too. "Hi."

"Hey." His hands are resting on his stomach, fingers drumming a song I can't place right now. He begins talking again, and I can see the fangs he had attached are still in place. My tongue licks over my teeth, and I can taste my own fangs still on them. Good. Gerard is talking. "I'm drunk."

I pull the sleeves of my jacket over my palms. "Yeah, there was something in the Kool-Aid. Not anything bad, hopefully. Maybe just alcohol. It would suck if we all died tonight."

The air is silent. Gerard continues to move the merry-go-round. I help him a bit. "I can't die."

It sounds like a confession, but in my slightly inebriated state, I laugh. "Okay, man, and I'm the current king of England."

"No, Frank." Gerard sits up with a grunt. He uses his hands as support. They're wobbling a bit. He looks ready to pass out. "I've tried to kill myself in so many different ways, at so many different times. And I can't. I can't die. Do you know how much it hurts? I can't die, Frank, no matter how hard I try."

I do know how much it hurts. I jumped out of a window. I've gotten lighters before and burned my hands. "It hurts a lot," I say. I don't recognize my voice when I speak again, telling Gerard about my hands. "I burned them. That's why I don't want people to see them. They're disfigured, and you already knew that, and I don't know how."

"Why?" Gerard is leaning in, wanting to know why I burned my hands.

"Why not?" Shit answer. I try again. "It was… I was mad because of my father. Scared, too. Terrified. I melted off my skin." I'm shaking. Gerard is, too. He's grabbing my hand, pulling it toward him, crushing it, yanking, squeezing. "Stop." My voice is firm, but it doesn't carry. Gerard is peeling off my glove, crushing my hand in the process. It hurts. It hurts so bad. I hear a loud crack, and then there are tears in my eyes, a giant lump in my throat. "I think you broke my hand," I mumble. I sob. "I need to go to the hospital."

Gerard doesn't say anything. He holds my useless hand in his own, fingers curling, uncurling. I begin to feel that light again. I've felt it once when I was lying in the hospital with a broken spinal cord. I had felt the painful white light, and then I was able to go home with an able body. I don't know how I'm feeling the light again. I feel it on my hand, my wrist, up my arm, to the tips of my fingers. I groan, and I turn my head to the side, and I vomit over the side of the merry-go-round. Nothing solid comes up, and for that, I'm thankful.

When Gerard lets go of my hand, the light goes away, and I feel better. I'm not melted. I haven't melted nor caught fire. I'm fine. I can feel my fingers. My hand looks normal. My hand looks normal. "My hand is normal."

"I can do the other one, too," Gerard says, and reaches for my hand. I slide away, shaking my head.

"I don't want to get sick again. Every time I've felt that, that light, I've gotten sick."

"But you're _better_." Gerard leans in. He takes my other hand, peels off that glove. "I'm helping you," he says, and he breaks this hand, too. I cry, but it isn't as loud this time. I swallow what little amount of vomit comes up my throat. "I'm trying to protect you, but I haven't been doing a good job. You jumped out of a window. I had to… fix you."

Gerard is fixing me. He's fixing my hand. I move my fingers, fan them out, then curl them into my palm. The merry-go-round isn't moving anymore. "I don't understand."

He stands from the merry-go-round, stuffing my gloves into his pocket. He helps me up. "I can explain."

"My house," I say. My hands don't feel like my own. One of my vampire fangs is gone.

"With coffee," Gerard adds. "I need to sober up before story time."


	9. Chapter 9

Mum isn't home. It's quiet when I enter the house with Gerard. I send him to my bedroom while I fix the coffee. I can hear him groaning. He's like a fucking zombie. 

"Here." I hand him the cup, prod his side with a toe. "Coffee."

He wastes no time in sitting up, in taking the beverage between two hands and drinking. He looks better now. When I sit on the bed with him, he passes me the coffee. I sip. My hands still don't feel like my own.

"Story time," I say.

"Story time," Gerard confirms. 

We sit there. I can almost hear a _tick-tick-tick_ from a clock. 

"Do you have any questions?" Gerard asks, his thumb tapping against the side of the cup. "Before I start, I mean."

I do. I flex my fingers, curl my toes. "How did you… do that thing? You fixed my hands… and my spinal cord before that. I know you weren't there, but I remember that light, so that must have been you, too, yeah?"

Gerard drinks. He drinks for a while. "Yes. I, uh, can sort of heal people."

It's unrealistic, but, at the time, it sounds like the most sensible thing in the world. "How?"

My heart is pounding in my chest. I can feel something coming up my throat. 

"Angel," Gerard whispers. "I'm an angel."

Story time. 

"I killed myself. I've tried many times before, but I couldn't. I would get right to the brink, and then I would wake up in the hospital. Obviously, I didn't want that. Who wants that? So—what's the saying?—try and try again?" I look at him. He continues, "I tried again. My dad left. I found a razor and…" He pauses, glancing down at the coffee in his hands. "I started fucking up my wrists. It didn't hurt. I wanted it to hurt, but it didn't hurt. It was like I fell asleep. I was out like a light. When I woke up, I was in the hospital. I didn't want that. Nobody wants to wake up in a hospital."

I take the coffee from him and swallow a gulp. 

"I'm in the hospital bed, and my wrists are all bandaged. Mikey was the one who called the ambulance. He knows how much I hate hospitals, but he called them, and now I was at the hospital. I wanted out. I couldn't handle it. So, I… ripped out my IVs and just… _ran_."

My heart is racing.

"I was running, and I don't remember how I got outside, but I was outside, and nobody had caught me yet. I was surprised that nobody had caught me, but…" He stops, taking the coffee from me. He swallows a gulp now. "I got ran over by a car," he says quietly, shaking his head. "I got hit in the side, and it propelled me forward, through the air, and I landed, and it ran over me again, and I could hear my ribs crack and my skull break, and my insides were… popping, like tiny pieces of popcorn. My wrists were bleeding again. They bled through the bandages, and it… it was just a _mess_."

I'm watching Gerard, careful, considerate. I don't take the coffee from him again. 

"I didn't die there. I died inside the hospital. They wheeled me back inside, and I died on a table. At least, that's what they said. They told me I had died on that table, and they had walked away from me because I was dead, y'know. And then… I'm waking up. I'm sitting up and asking them if I could go home, and they just stared at me with these huge eyes." Gerard tries to mimic them, laughing. "I was clean. I wasn't broken. I was completely okay. And I got to go home." Gerard sits back, finishing up the coffee. I sit there, staring, unable to move, unable to think. "Do you have any questions?" Gerard repeats, and it's so casual, like he hadn't just finished recounting his death scene. 

"How?" I ask, blinking, and going over the singular word over and over in my head. "How did you—?"

Gerard's phone is ringing. He's rolling his eyes, pulling the device from his pocket. He glances at the caller ID, then glances once more when it doesn't click. "Alicia?" His eyebrow quirks. "Mikey's girlfriend," he fills me in, flipping the phone open to accept the call. "I wonder what she wants."

It's my birthday. It's Halloween. I pop the remaining fang from my tooth. Gerard grows pale. "No."

Everybody scream.


	10. Chapter 10

Mikey died. 

Their father had come to the house that night, and Mikey and his girlfriend, Alicia, were spending time together. You know how that goes.

Shit happened. Mikey got his eye stabbed out, his lips sewn shut, and a severely bruised throat. He had been hanged. Alicia wasn't that better off either. She had been tied up, and her lips had been sewn shut also. In some places, the skin had split—most likely from where she had torn apart the stitching and ripped away the rope to call an ambulance and Gerard. She's tough, I'll give her that. I would have lain there and gladly greeted the inky saltwater of death.

She was pregnant, too. The doctors had to deliver her the unlucky news while she was recovering. There was no hesitation to her decision to get rid of the parasite. "Get it out," she had said, and now she's better.

The police found Gerard's father hiding in a nearby park. He didn't put up a fight. I don't know why. 

Gerard's mother is taking us all to Mikey's funeral. They waited until early November. I thought that was nice.

Alicia is with us. She's tugging the sleeves of her dress over her palms. She doesn't want to be here, and I don't blame her. I don't want to be here either.

Gerard isn't crying. He's silent, unmoving. His hands are tightly clasped together. He doesn't want to be here, and I don't blame him. I don't want to be here either.

We're in Gerard's room now. The bed is unmade, and the small window to the left of us is open. "Gerard," I say quietly. "Gerard."

He's quiet. 

"Gerard, can I ask you something?"

He raises his head, stares at me. His eyes are bright, and there's a smile on his face. It's like he knows what I'm going to say. He's ready. I'm ready. I was interrupted last time, but this time, I am ready, and I will be free.

"How did you become an angel?"


End file.
